LIFE IS FINE
Langston Hughes (1902-1967)

I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.

I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.

But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!

I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.

But it was High up there! It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born

Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.

Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!

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Langston Hughes was an American poet, playwright, novelist and social activist.

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Next post Monday

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FAIRIES’ SONG
Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)

We the fairies blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen, be your apples.

When to bed the world is bobbing,
Then’s the time for orchard robbing,
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling,
Were it not for stealing, stealing.

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Tomorrow - Life is fine (Langston Hughes)

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THANKS FOR THE MEMORY
Leo Robin and Ralph Rainger

Thanks for the memory
Of candlelight and wine, castles on the Rhine,
The Parthenon and moments on the Hudson River Line,
How lovely it was!

Thanks for the memory
Of rainy afternoons, swingy Harlem tunes,
And motor trips and burning lips and burning toast and prunes,
How lovely it was!

Many's the time that we feasted
And many's the time that we fasted,
Oh, well, it was swell while it lasted,
We did have fun and no harm done.

And thanks for the memory
Of sunburns at the shore, nights in Singapore,
You might have been a headache but you never were a bore,
So thank you so much.

Thanks for the memory
Of sentimental verse, nothing in my purse
And chuckles when the preacher said "For better or for worse,"
How lovely it was!

Thanks for the memory
Of lingerie with lace, Pilsner by the case,
And how I jumped the day you trumped my one-and-only ace,
How lovely it was!

We said goodbye with a highball,
Then I got as "high" as a steeple,
But we were intelligent people,
No tears, no fuss, Hooray for us -

So, thanks for the memory
And strictly entre-nous, darling how are you?
And how are all the little dreams that never did come true?
Awfully glad I met you, cheerio and toodle-oo
And thank you so much.

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Tomorrow - Fairies' Song (Leigh Hunt)

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LUCY
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!

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Tomorrow - Thanks for the Memory (Leo Robin and Ralph Rainger)

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THE BROOK
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorpes, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

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Tomorrow - Lucy (William Wordsworth)

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LIMERICKS
Anon

An exceedingly fat friend of mine,
When asked at what hour he'd dine,
Replied, "At eleven,
At three, five, and seven,
And eight and a quarter past nine."

I once took our vicar to tea;
It was just as I thought it would be:
His rumblings abdominal
Were simply phenomenal,
And everyone thought it was me.

The incredible Wizard of Oz
Retired from his business becoz
Due to up-to-date science,
To most of his clients,
He wasn't the Wizard he woz.

There was an old gent from Hyde
Who ate rotten apples and died.
The apples fermented
Inside the lamented
And made cider inside his inside.

Said an ape as he swung by his tail,
To his offspring both female and male,
"From your offspring, my dears,
In a couple of years,
May evolve a professor at Yale."

There was a young man of Japan
Whose limericks never would scan.
When they asked him, Why?
He said, with a sigh,
"It's because I always try to get as many words into the last line as I possibly can."

There once was a young man from Crewe
Whose limericks stopped at line two.

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The origin of the limerick lies somewhere in the early 18th century. It became popular in the 19th century, largely due to Edward Lear the English artist, illustrator and poet.

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Next post Monday

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TO CELIA
Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

Drink to me only with thine eyes
And I will pledge with mine.
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much hon'ring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be;

But thou thereon did'st only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me,
Since when it grows and smells, I swear
Not of itself, but thee.

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Tomorrow - Something quite different!!!

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THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
Anon

There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them o’er the sea.

They hadna' been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
When word came to the carline wife,
That her three sons were gane.

They hadna' been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
When word came to the carline wife
That her sons she‘d never see.

"I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood."

It fell about the Martinmass,
When nights are long and mirk,
The carline wife's three sons came hame,
But their hats were o’ the birk.

It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
Nor yet in any sheugh;
But at the gates o Paradise,
That birk grew fair enough.

"Blow up the fire my maidens,
Bring water from the well;
For a' my house shall feast this night,
Since my three sons are well."

And she has made to them a bed,
She's made it large and wide,
And she's ta'en her mantle her about,
Sat down at the bed-side.

Up then crew the red, red cock,
And up then crew the grey;
The eldest to the youngest said,
“Tis time we were away.”

The cock he hadna' crowed but once,
And clapped his wings at a',
When the youngest to the eldest said,
“Brother, we must awa'.”

"Fare ye well, our mother dear!
Farewell to barn and byre!
And fare ye well, the bonny lass
That kindles our mother's fire!"

carlin wife = old woman, fashes = troubles, flood = sea, birk = birch, syke = trench, sheugh = furrow

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Tomorrow - To Celia (Ben Jonson)

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TO AUTUMN
William Blake (1757-1827)

O Autumn, laden with fruit and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may’st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

"The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust’ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather’d clouds strew flowers round her head.

"The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.”
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

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Tomorrow - There lived a Wife at Usher's Well (Anon)

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A NIGHTINGALE SANG IN BERKELEY SQUARE
Eric Maschwitz (1901-1969)

That certain night,
The night we met,
There was magic abroad in the air.
There were angels dining at the Ritz,
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

I may be right, I may be wrong,
But I'm perfectly willing to swear
That when you turned and smiled at me,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

The moon that lingered over London town
Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown.
How could he know that we two were so in love?
The whole darn world seemed upside down.

The streets of town were paved with stars,
It was such a romantic affair.
And as we kissed and said goodnight,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

When dawn came stealing up, all gold and blue
To interrupt our rendezvous,
I still remember how you smiled and said,
"Was that a dream? Or was it true?"

Our homeward step was just as light
As the dancing of Fred Astaire,
And like an echo far away
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square -
I know, for I was there
That night in Berkeley Square.

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Tomorrow - To Autumn (William Blake)

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A LTTLE WHILE, A LITTLE WHILE
Emily Bronte (1818-1848)

A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.

Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart -
What thought, what scene invites thee now,
What spot, or near or far apart,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

There is a spot, 'mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But, if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear -
So longed for - as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them - how I love them all!

Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away;
And from the midst of cheerless gloom,
I passed to bright, unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side.

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

That was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy pathway's sweep,
That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Could I have lingered but an hour,
It well had paid a week of toil;
But Truth has banished Fancy's power:
Restraint and heavy task recoil.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, bondage, care.

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The poetry of Thomas Hardy at The Wessex Poet
http://thewessexpoet.blogspot.com

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ON A TIRED HOUSEWIFE
Anon

Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,
She lived in a house where help wasn't hired:
Her last words on earth were: “Dear friends, I am going
To where there's no cooking, or washing, or sewing,
For everything there is exact to my wishes,
For where they don't eat there's no washing of dishes.
I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,
But having no voice I'll be quit of the singing.
Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never,
I am going to do nothing for ever and ever.”

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Tomorrow - a poem by Emily Bronte

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ABOU BEN ADHEM
Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

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Leigh Hunt was the writer of this famous verse -
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.

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Tomorrow - On a Tired Housewife (Anon)

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OVER THE SEA TO SKYE
Sir Harold Boulton (1859-1935)

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.

Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclaps rend the air;
Baffled, our foes stand by the shore,
Follow they will not dare.

Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep,
Ocean's a royal bed.
Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep
Watch by your weary head.

Many's the lad fought on that day,
Well the Claymore could wield,
When the night came, silently lay
Dead in Culloden's field.

Burned are their homes, exile and death
Scatter the loyal men;
Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath
Charlie will come again.

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.

These verses recall the escape of Bonnie Prince Charlie to the Isle of Skye after his defeat at Culloden in 1746. The prince disguised as a servant girl made his escape in a small boat with the help of Flora MacDonald.

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Tomorrow - Abou Ben Adhem (Leigh Hunt)

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TO MARY: I SLEEP WITH THEE
John Clare (1793 - 1864)

I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,
And yet thou art not there;
I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,
And press the common air.
Thy eyes are gazing upon mine
When thou art out of sight;
My lips are always touching thine
At morning, noon, and night.

I think and speak of other things
To keep my mind at rest,
But still to thee my memory clings
Like love in woman's breast.
I hide it from the world's wide eye
And think and speak contrary,
But soft the wind comes from the sky
And whispers tales of Mary.

The night-wind whispers in my ear,
The moon shines on my face;
The burden still of chilling fear
I find in every place.
The breeze is whispering in the bush,
And the leaves fall from the tree,
All sighing on, and will not hush,
Some pleasant tales of thee.

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The poetry of Thomas Hardy - http://thewessexpoet.blogspot.com

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THE ASH GROVE
John Oxenford (19th cent)

The ash grove how graceful, how plainly 'tis speaking
The harp through its playing has language for me.
Whenever the light through its branches is breaking,
A host of kind faces is gazing on me.
The friends from my childhood again are before me
Each step wakes a memory as freely I roam.
With soft whispers laden the leaves rustle o’er me
The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.

Down yonder green meadow where streamlets meander
When twilight is fading I pensively roam
Or in the bright noon tide in solitude wander
Amid the dark spaces of that lonely ash grove.
‘Twas there while the black bird was cheerfully singing
I first met my dear one the joy of my heart
Around us for gladness the blue bells were springing
The ash grove, the ash grove that sheltered my home.

My lips smile no more, my heart loses its lightness;
No dream of the future my spirit can cheer.
I only can brood on the past and its brightness
The dear ones I long for again gather here.
From ev'ry dark nook they press forward to meet me;
I lift up my eyes to the broad leafy dome,
And others are there, looking downward to greet me
The ash grove, the ash grove, again is my home.

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Next post here - Monday

On Sunday at Thomas Hardy the Wessex Poet - the concluding poems in the Satires of Circumstance series
http://thewessexpoet.blogspot.com

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BILLY AND ME
James Hogg (1770-1835)

Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

James Hogg, poet and author, became known as “The Ettrick Shepherd.” He was born on a small farm near Ettrick in Scotland.
His most famous poem "The Skylark" begins -

Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place--
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

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Tomorrow - The Ash Grove (John Oxenford)

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IT WAS A YEAR AGO, SEPTEMBER
Anon

It was a year ago, September
a day I well remember
I was walking up and down
in drunken pride
when my knees began to flutter
and I fell down in the gutter
and a pig came by and lay down by my side

As I lay there in the gutter
thinking thoughts I could not utter
I thought I heard a passing lady say,
"You can tell a man who boozes
by the company he chooses,"
And with that, the pig got up and walked away

There are many versions of the above on the internet. Some have additional verses with other animals in turn lying down beside the drunk.

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Tomorrow - Billy and Me (James Hogg)

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FROM A CARRIAGE WINDOW

Alexander Anderson 1845-1909

Just a peep from a carriage window,
As we stood for a moment still,
Just one look - and no more - till the engine
Gave a whistle sharp and shrill.

But I saw in that moment the heather,
That lay like a purple sheet
On the hills that watch o’er the hamlet
That sleeps like a child at their feet.

O, sweet are those hills when the winter
Flings round them his mantle of snow,
And sweet when the sunshine of summer
Sets their fair green bosoms aglow.

But sweeter and grander in autumn,
When the winds are soft with desire,
When the buds of the heather take blossom,
And run to their summits like fire.

I saw each and all through the heather
That purple lay spread like a sheet
On the hills that watch over the hamlet,
That sleeps like a child at their feet.

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Born in Kirkconnel in Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland, Alexander Anderson at the age of sixteen worked in a quarry, and two years later he became a surfaceman or platelayer on the Glasgow and South-Western railway. He usually wrote under the pseudonym Surfaceman.

Later he became assistant librarian in Edinburgh University, and after an interval as secretary to the Philosophical Institution there, he returned as Chief Librarian to the university. His friends included the Duke of Argyll and Thomas Carlyle.

Many of his poems are in the Scottish dialect, among them the well-known "Cuddle Doon".

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Tomorrow's poem is a warning to all who over-imbibe!!!

Have you a minute? If so, have a quick look at http://haveyouaminute.blogspot.com

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DO YOU HEAR THE CHILDREN WEEPING?
from "The Cry of the Chnildren"
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west:
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.

“For oh,” say the children, “we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap;
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring
Through the coal-dark, underground,
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,
For they mind you of their angels in high places,
With eyes turned on Deity.
“How long,” they say, “how long, O cruel nation,
Will you stand, to move the world, on a child’s heart,—
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,
And your purple shows your path!
But the child’s sob in the silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath.”

The above is part of a long poem consisting of 13 verses each with 12 lines. It was written at the time "when government investigations had exposed the exploitation of children employed in coal mines and factories."
The full poem can be read at - http://www.bartleby.com/246/260.html

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Tomorrow - From a Carriage Window (Alexander Anderson)

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ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE
Oscar Hammerstein II (1895-1960)

Time and again I’ve longed for adventure,
Something to make my heart beat the faster.
What did I long for? I never really knew.
Finding your love I’ve found my adventure,
Touching your hand, my heart beats the faster,
All that I want in all of this world is you.

You are the promised kiss of springtime
That makes the lonely winter seem long.
You are the breathless hush of evening
That trembles on the brink of a lovely song.

You are the angel glow that lights a star,
The dearest things I know are what you are.
Some day my happy arms will hold you,
And some day I’ll know that moment divine,
When all the things you are, are mine!

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All the Things You Are with music by Jerome Kern was written for the 1939 musical Very Warm for May. In 1944 it was later featured in the film “Broadway Rhythm.” The American Oscar Hammerstein was famous as a brilliant song-writer. He co-wrote around 850 songs and his collaboration with Richard Rodgers in shows like Oklahoma, Carousel, South Pacific, The King and I and The Sound of Music has ensured that his name is still remembered more than 50 years after his death.

Next post Monday - a 19th century protest poem!!!

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On Sunday at Thomas Hardy the Wessex Poet -
continuing the Satires of Circumstance series
http://thewessexpoet.blogspot.com

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MARY’S GHOST
Thomas Hood (1799-1845)

'Twas in the middle of the night,
To sleep young William tried,
When Mary’s ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bed-side.

O William dear! O William dear!
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.

I thought the last of all my cares
Would end with my last minute;
But tho’ I went to my long home
I didn’t stay long in it.

The body-snatchers they have come,
And made a snatch at me;
It’s very hard them kind of men
Won’t let a body be!

You thought that I was buried deep
Quite decent like and chary,
But from her grave in Mary-bone
They’ve come and boned your Mary.

The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Dr. Vyse;
And both my legs are gone to walk
The hospital at Guy’s.

I vow’d that you should have my hand,
But fate gives us denial;
You’ll find it there, at Dr. Bell’s
In spirits and a phial.

As for my feet, the little feet
You used to call so pretty,
There’s one, I know, in Bedford Row,
The t’other’s in the city.

I can’t tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can:
As for my trunk, it’s all pack’d up
To go by Pickford’s van.*

I wished you’d go to Mr. P.
And save me such a ride;
I don’t half like the outside place,
They’ve took for my inside.

The cock it crows - I must begone!
My William we must part!
But I’ll be yours in death, altho’
Sir Astley has my heart.**

Don’t go to weep upon my grave,
And think that there I be;
They haven’t left an atom there
Of my anatomie.

*Pickford’s removals business was established in the 17th century.

**Sir Astley Paston Cooper, 1st Baronet (1768–1841) was a famous English surgeon and anatomist

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Tomorrow - All The Things You Are (Oscar Hammerstein II)

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